


Touch

by SonataForMyOverdosedLover



Series: And in her arms he'd kill the Maker, each time, a little more [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, a story depicted in moments, reflections on how Lady Trevelyan interacts with people around her, the effect she has on them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonataForMyOverdosedLover/pseuds/SonataForMyOverdosedLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touch… he’d never given much thought to that. Everything physical had an end. How could something … so finite and ephemeral be enough to guide your life after? It was an unnerving sensation that the woman that kept slipping into his attention was holding secrets that could toy with everything he believed in.  He would not claim that he could understand her or agree with her attachment to something so circumscribed to the material life, but he no longer could judge her on it. Not when he found himself at the receiving end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of moments, words, gestures, glances and touches. It might have crossed Varric's mind to get some fresh inspiration for a new novel but truth being told they made no good story. In order to write a story you need a strong beginning, a happy middle, and a memorable ending. They couldn't agree on a beginning, there was no middle way for either of them, and they would not accept an end. Theirs was a story they would rather keep to their longing fingers and their craving mouths.

Touch… he’d never given much thought to that. The Order had taught him to put the will of the Maker above everything else. Everything physical had an end and in his darkest moments it was the faith in something bigger than his flesh and bones that granted him the power to survive; to resist; to forgive. It was the promise of eternal victory that made him be his own judge; that made him see and correct his mistakes. 

How could something … so finite and ephemeral be enough to guide your life after? Was losing oneself in their own mortality worth the price? It was not the lack of understanding that made him think of it this much. It was the familiarity and the unexceptional in these acts that did not leave his mind at peace. It was an unnerving sensation that the woman that kept slipping into his attention was holding secrets that could toy with everything he believed in. 

He did not hide his gesture as his eyes followed her from the gates to the place where Cassandra was usually training. The days she was spending in Haven were not many. Most of the time she was out there, on the front line, dealing with the rifts and recruiting agents. While in Haven, those that she interacted with were few, and even fewer those whose presence she’d acknowledge. 

She’d place a gentle but firm hand on Cassandra’s shoulder blade to announce her presence. Always; same gesture, same acknowledgment. The Seeker would stand tall and confident. He wondered if the woman was aware of her reaction to the touch. He’d watched her on the training ground and he’d watched her during their meeting. The knowledge that the Trevelyan was by her side gave the woman a renewed wave of expressed confidence. She’d nod her head solemnly as a response. Cassandra Pentaghast did not appreciate surprises or ambushes; not on the battlefield and not in a conversation. And the woman knew; she would always let her presence be known before interfering. The touch was caste; silent; levelling.

The courting dance she’d perform for Josephine was not something anyone could miss. The way she always greeted the Antivan diplomat held no secret meanings, yet it was performed by the coyest gestures. The way she’d always grab her hand, delicately and fluently bringing it to her mouth; she’d only speak her name after the lips had met the smooth skin and her eyes had caught Josephine’s. She’d leave an emphatic kiss on the back of her hand when they would meet and make the ambassador smile in expectation, and occasionally, a tender caress on her palm when bidding farewell, painting her sun bathed cheeks in red. 

There was something sensual and intimate in the way the woman was interacting with the mage from Tevinter. Whatever secrets they shared since the night he had joined the Inquisition, they seemed to collect more and more behind their occult gestures. He had caught sight of the duo in Haven on several occasions. Thinking about it for the first time, he was starting to realize that he couldn’t remember a single touch between the two; and yet the way their bodies communicated made it look as if there was no distance left between them when they exchanged glances or leaned over to whisper in each other’s ears. Often one would bluntly stare at the other while they were not paying attention. The way they seemed to feel each other just with their eyes made him uncomfortable. There was no private space and no line of discretion to draw between their bodies in spite of the lack of touch.

He locked his eyes on her moving lips as she continued talking with Cassandra, undisturbed by his gaze. 

She knew distance as she knew closeness. While some people in the Inquisition were granted affinity some would adapt to the statuary language of her body.   
She never crossed Leliana’s personal space. Always keeping the Spymaster at a diplomatic distance, she’d listen with interest to anything she had to report. It never escaped him how her answers to the Spymaster were always short and precise. There was a distinct way in which the Trevelyan would look up, into her eyes and with a simple nod or frown could send her message across to Leliana. The communication with their lack of words was frightening and their ability to understand each other through gestures that escaped the others was enough to freeze his blood. He was well aware that there were matters of the Inquisition that the two women did not share with the rest and decisions taken under their noses, through the calculated distance the two kept. 

He had seen her walking with Solas around Haven, often on morning strolls around the trebuchets lines. She was always keeping a considerate distance from the mage, her arms close to her body, at times, locked behind her back. The man, he had discovered, was hard to communicate with, his answers evasive and always leaving more questions hanging in the air. And yet he was surprised by how the woman had managed to find the balance with her obliging distance and educated questions to make him talk and explain. There was a respectful coldness in her eyes when she was looking at the apostate and that made the man voice opinions he knew the people in Haven would strongly disagree with. 

And she could be demanding in her distance. While everyone had been whispering for weeks about the Gray Warden that joined the Inquisition, she treated him no differently than any other good warrior. Their interactions were short, blunt and terse. At first, the imposing length at which she was keeping him seemed domineering if not conceited but it only made him later appreciate how calculated and smart the woman was. He had talked to Blackwall several times and he enjoyed the company, but the man was solitary and reserved, politely retreating when the conversation would turn more relaxed. To her imposing presence he answered with trust. She was winning him over like she was doing with all the rest, making him wonder if this physical language with which she was leading her arguments was natural or something learnt and carefully enacted. 

Were they aware? Of the influence she had on them? How they responded to her touches or distinct lack of? Was Cassandra aware of how her voice deepened with confidence in her presence, how Josephine was eagerly awaiting the beginning of their meetings each time the Trevelyan announced her presence or how Leliana would double-check her information before answering to the woman’s inquiry? She had an effect on all the people she interacted with. Her body would perform in skillful, repetitive rituals and they would not even realize how instinctively they reacted.

The heavy burden at the back of his head had crept back in without his notice and the distant lament he had grown used to forced his eyes shut and killed every other sound coming from the outside world. The lyrium was not singing to him anymore and yet quite often he’d hear an agonizing wail, demanding, yearning, excruciating. It was calling for a drop from the blue bottle and the more he protested and tried to seal it away, the more the pain would spread through his body, his head struck by a grave headache and his limbs hard to control under their own weight. In that biting deafness the calling of the lyrium was slowly rippling more distant until it died in a rhythm that soon he recognized as the sound of snow crushed under someone’s steps. He frowned in confusion, left alone just with the headache and the control he was trying to regain over his body. 

“I enjoy a good thrill myself but standing with my eyes closed in the middle of a training field surrounded by recruits who are probably swinging those swords for the first time in their lives is not at the top of my list.” 

His eyes snapped opened and he regretted the abrupt gesture with which he turned to face the woman. His entire body protested the move.

“I… I am sorry; I did not hear you coming.” He patched an excuse to buy him time to fully acknowledge what was happening. 

“No need to apologize. We can barely understand each other through this noise.”

It was true. And in fact, it was the very reason why he was still struggling to understand the previous moments because although he had found himself an excuse, he had lied. He could barely hear her now, talking through the clash of swords and shields, but he heard each step she took, clearly, as if it were inside his head. How in Maker’s name he heard those silent steps he did not know and he slowly started to push everything on the effect that the lyrium had on him, toying with his mind and senses.

He was probably looking at her as if she had grown two heads judging by her small frown. But it was fascinating how instead of interrogating she smiled it away, not prying into his thoughts. 

The woman looked down, asking for his attention to be on the papers she was presenting him. She stepped closer, still holding them instead of fully handing the worn papers to him. 

“These are the spots I managed to map on the Fallow Mire. There is no word of the missing soldiers so far and that place is difficult to travel through. There are signs of a plague and if we want to find out what happened to our men I will need more than just a small party. I want you to have a look at this and tell me what we can spare from our forces.”

He let his eyes travel over the information offered by the sketched map and the notes written down towards the bottom of the paper. The area looked big and sending men through a plagued land would mean that they would need more than just the regular supplies.

“Where do you plan to extend the research?”

“Far South.” He held the map straight with his hands when she let go of the grip she had on the left side to move her fingers lower, above an unmarked area. “There was large area we could not cross.”

His mind was already processing numbers, quantities, variables. He needed to know what the expectations were in order to give answers. He wondered if he had voiced his thoughts out loud because the woman granted him an answer as they both continued to scrutinize the maps.

“I also want to know if we can hold the area after I will take care of the rifts. Because of the environment not many have taken advantage of the resources there. If we have the power to keep it under our protection there are a lot of untouched resources we could make great use of.” 

He was balancing the information. Were the benefits worth the trouble of holding under control such a problematic area? He could only state that after the reports would start coming through. It was worth a shot at least.

“I will talk this over with Rylen and see how many agents he can send over. Let me know when you are planning to return to the Mire and I will make sure the men are ready.”

It was right then when he felt it. The firm tug and the soft grip of leathered fingers around his upper arm. She must have said something, clearly pleased with his answer but her body had already sent the message across. His eyes traveled from the papers, up, to their locked arms, realizing that he couldn't remember when she had vined her right forearm around his arm or when her left hand had found rest at the base of his wrist.

When had the woman stepped so close to him? She had subtly placed herself in his personal space, both her arms snaked around his, breasts gently pressed against his side. A thought formed in his mind, trying to recall the reason why he had not noticed her gesture sooner and a lone feeling of familiarity answered him back. Had this happened before? He could not remember but he dared not move. Acknowledging their connection would only make it uncomfortable and he did not wish for that. 

He returned his eyes on the papers but his mind refused to follow. The way she leaned on him was a gesture that reminded him of her noble birth. A confidence that permitted her to invade someone’s space without asking permission; a sign that betrayed comfort and trust. They barely saw eye to eye so he was asking himself how, in spite of that, the woman still perceived him on good terms. A selfish thought grew as the idea of asking more of her company almost formed at the tip of his tongue. But the circumstances in which they had met and the current situation on their shoulders crashed his impulse away. Understanding that however wasn’t making it easier for him to know how he should respond. He needed time to comprehend where he stood in her eyes. He would not act on it; he preferred to ignore the language of her touch. For now; until he’d figure out on his own where he wanted to fit. Even so, he could not chase away the inappropriate sentiment of gain that grounded the strength in his legs and made his back straighten with stability and purpose. 

Much more at ease now, he continued to listen to her low voice as the woman was offering more details on her requests. He would not claim that he could understand her or agree with her attachment to something so circumscribed to the material life, but he no longer could judge her on it. Not when he found himself at the receiving end.


End file.
